


If You Said You'd Be Mine

by floweringscrubs



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Crowley is Bad at Feelings (Good Omens), How Do I Tag, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Tattoos, Vomiting, also extra warning for, author is a nurse and forgets that things are gross to most people, probably not but stay tuned, will i ever write crowley talking in coherent sentences?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-02
Updated: 2019-09-02
Packaged: 2020-10-05 23:40:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,222
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20497265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/floweringscrubs/pseuds/floweringscrubs
Summary: Dawnlight slips into the room around heavy curtains, the noise of traffic and humanity barely a low drone yet as Crowley stirs awake, slow and easily. It’s rare that he awakens anything less than abruptly, dragged from sleep by pools of sulphur and the stench of brimstone. And so, he allows himself a few more moments of imagination, of this dreamscape that feels too much like home, not daring to open his eyes quite yet.





	If You Said You'd Be Mine

_ The coffee mug is warm against his palm, the bitterness on his tongue grounding as he listens for the angel, somewhere out of view. _

_ Coiled to strike as he comes around the corner-- fuzzy and glowing white around the edges-- a lunge turns to a mere slither at the sight of red and purple, splotched on creamy skin. _

_ Soft hands fiddle with the tartan bow and his eyes are drawn there, remembering the feel of that warm skin under his lips, his tongue, his teeth, even. Remembering the scent of parchment and lavender, the taste of sweat, the rumble of moans and little whines against his cheeks. _

_ He eyes those marks as he slips an arm around a soft waist, pulling close, possessively. Chin grazing a padded shoulder, the thoughts of ‘you’re mine’ and ‘stay forever’ wrapped up in a simple, breathed, “g’morning angel.” _

* * *

Dawnlight slips into the room around heavy curtains, the noise of traffic and humanity barely a low drone yet as Crowley stirs awake, slow and easily. It’s rare that he awakens anything less than abruptly, dragged from sleep by pools of sulphur and the stench of brimstone. And so, he allows himself a few more moments of imagination, of this dreamscape that feels too much like home, not daring to open his eyes quite yet. 

The vision of Aziraphale swims back into view-- prim and proper, standing in his kitchen and flushing under his heavy, dilated gaze. The bruises from his lips stand in stark relief on the angel’s pale neck and jaw as he pulls him close, breathing in the scent of him and trying his best to be suave. He knows the angel would see right through that, if dreams were reality, but he allows a smile to creep onto his face, small and hopeful, before opening his eyes to the actual morning and grimacing at the ceiling. 

He flings his legs out of the sheet and slinks into a sitting position, his spine popping with a bit of reptilian protest. The bed shifts behind him, causing the demon to stifle in the middle of a stretch, and he turns around slowly with the knowledge that this must be too good to be true. 

But there, even more real than he’d imagined, lies Aziraphale-- sound asleep and curled neatly around a pillow, wearing only his shorts, his suit and tie draped carefully over a chair back in the far corner of the room. 

Crowley remembers the night before-- of course he does-- but now, vivid images of the angel float back into his vision-- his shock white hair in view as he pressed his face between the demon’s thighs, kneeling over him as he flung lanky legs one by one over his broad shoulders, their hands twined together as he pushed inside, his face as he--

Ochre eyes blink hard at that memory, and he swallows harshly, mouth suddenly dry. Pushing those thoughts out of his mind temporarily, he turns back towards the angel, rather intent on kissing him awake. 

He slips the sheet downwards some, off his shoulders, pressing his lips just ever so lightly behind Aziraphale’s ear. The angel doesn’t stir so he continues, leaving a second and third kiss in his hairline before moving downwards. 

Its then he sees it, there in between his shoulder blades. Small and unassuming along the angel’s spine, is the image of a snake, black and red and twisted around itself in a complicated S. 

Frozen in disbelief, just inches from the Aziraphale’s skin, Crowley’s own face stings as his eyes trace the pattern over and over-- his own sigil emblazoned on the porcelain skin of the angel.

He’s reeling then, scrambling off the bed, the white-hot burn of his cheek overpowering his vision, blood he doesn’t need pounding in his ears as he dashes from the bedroom. 

He stumbles down the hall, palming blindly at the walls and tripping over himself, never more a serpent on stilts than in this moment. His breath is coming in aborted gasps with sweat dripping down his face, and before he knows it he’s falling to his knees, retching over the toilet despite not having eaten in weeks. 

The bile that wrings itself forth from his throat looks too much like sulphur against the white ceramic and he throws himself backwards, arms behind him supporting his weight in a heap in the middle of the floor. 

He’s shaking with a hell-wrought fear, the image of his mark on Aziraphale’s skin dancing before his eyes. He’d dreamt of it, but not like this, never like this. 

He knows he has to get a grip on himself, knows the angel won’t be asleep much longer, even after last night-- love confessions made in hasty whispered voices, desperate clawing at clothes and souls for release, for reciprocation, skin on skin and the reality of six thousand years of hiding, coming together finally, consummating, consecrating…. 

It’s those thoughts, just as he’s climbing to his feet, his white knuckled grip bruising the granite counter, that hit him like a wave-- a torrent of holy water come to drag him to the depths. He hadn’t just marked the angel with his lips last night, in the throes of each other. He’d crossed an invisible line. He’d given in to his own temptations, the only sin he’d ever cared to confess. 

In loving him, he’d damned the angel. Aziraphale, crying out in ecstasy, pulling Crowley to his chest, had fallen as he’d come, wings burning as muscles contracted. And now he was permanently marked that of a demon, branded with the irrevocable knowledge that he’d not only fallen from grace, but it was Crowley’s fault alone. 

A wretched sob heaves out of Crowley’s chest and he falls to the floor again, scrambling backwards until his back presses into the wall. He pulls his knees up and buries his face, rocking and barely breathing. 

And that’s how Aziraphale finds him, moments later, strolling groggily into the bathroom for a shower and stopping dead in his tracks at the threshold when he lays eyes on the demon, curled up in the corner, shaking and reeking of bile and sweat. 

“Crowley!” he practically yelps, rushing across the room and dropping to his knees beside him. 

Hands fluttering for a moment, unsure of where to begin, Aziraphale touches Crowley’s bare back and the demon lunges, hissing harshly and glaring at the angel, eyes fully yellow and fangs bared. 

To his credit, Aziraphale doesn’t flinch, just sits back on his haunches and withdraws his hand, worry etching hard lines around his eyes. 

He fights to keep his voice level, speaking barely above a whisper as Crowley curls in on himself again, shame and fear whittling away at his form. “Crowley love, are you hurt? What’s wrong?” 

“Let me see them,” the demon answers, unmoving, the words sounding hollow and far away. 

“See what dear?” 

He looks up again, completely ragged, and points accusingly. “I saw it, Aziraphale! I know, okay?!? Just… just tell me the truth. Please… let me see them!” 

Bewildered, Aziraphale turns and sits down next to Crowley, slowly sliding an arm around his shoulders. 

He doesn’t want to succumb to it, knows he doesn’t deserve it, but he leans into the warmth of Aziraphale anyway, letting himself slump against his side and be held, just for a few moments. 

“Why didn’t you tell me?” He whines, still trembling, “I was always afraid that I’d… that you would… oh God I’m so sorry Aziraphale… I’m so--”

“Crowley.” The word is stern, cutting off the demon’s tearful apologies as Aziraphale shifts some to look him in the face. “I will tell you anything you want to know, darling, anything. But you have to let me into what you’re going on about.” 

Crowley stares back open mouthed, eyes flitting up and down Aziraphale’s body for a moment before he pulls away, wrapping his arms back around himself. “Your _ wings. _ Let me see them, angel.” 

The endearment sounds like a curse on his tongue now and he wishes he could take it back the moment it slips past his lips. He watches Aziraphale’s face carefully, looking for any sign of pain or hurt. 

Only confusion is writ across it, but after a moment he shrugs slightly, rolling his shoulders and allowing his wings to fade into reality slowly, flickering some and stretching wide before settling comfortably about his back.

Aziraphale regards the feathers over his shoulders, tutting as he takes them in. “I do suppose they could use a bit of grooming but I haven’t exactly had the time with his whole Armageddon business, dear what--” 

With a gasp, Crowley lurches forward, burying his hands in the feathers and bowling Aziraphale over onto his back. 

Strong arms come to encircle his waist-- Aziraphale in complete acceptance of the sudden change in position and simply choosing to hold the demon who is now draped on top of him. 

Tears stream down Crowley’s cheeks with the realization that the downy, dusty, disheveled feathers between his fingers are still-- by God-- pure white. 

“Crowley, Crowley, love, please…” Aziraphale babbles some, stroking copper hair and gathering the demon to his chest, tucking his face into the crook of his neck and allowing the gasps which wrack through Crowley’s lanky body for another few moments. 

They lay like that, an awkward diagonal across the bathroom floor, and when he’s finally still, Aziraphale snaps his fingers quietly behind the demon’s back, and suddenly they’re back in bed, Crowley clinging desperately to the angel’s arms now that his wings have folded away. 

Aziraphale gently rolls to the side, depositing Crowley onto the sheets and pulling back to look at him. 

“Whatever is going on dear?” 

The worry lacing the angel’s voice makes Crowley cringe, realizing he’s made quite the scene of this morning. “I thought… I thought you… I thought I’d _ made _ you…” 

Not finding the words, he reaches over Aziraphales shoulder and slides his hand down his spine, tracing the sigil with a blunt fingernail. 

The angel shivers involuntarily and his eyes widen in sudden understanding-- Crowley would never have seen the small inscription before, probably not even in a mirror while inhabiting his body and certainly not the night before, pinned as he had been on his back between the angel’s thighs. 

“I saw it this morning and I thought… I thought you’d fallen,” Crowley admits, quietly, dejected. “I thought I’d made you fall, Angel, I couldn’t live with myself if….” 

Aziraphale presses a kiss to Crowley’s forehead, shushing him gently and sighing. 

“Crowley I-- I’m not afraid of that. And I have thought about it. I know it’s taken me an awful long time but I’ve chosen this, my dear. Us. If it really came to that-- and I doubt it would but--” 

“No, angel, you can’t, I…” It’s a hoarse, obligate whisper and it trails off, all of the fight leaving the demon as Aziraphale shushes him again. 

“I choose you, Crowley. I love you.”

It is most definitely not with another sob that Crowley responds to those words, surely not, but the angel pulls him close again anyway, stroking his hair and holding him tight. 

When the tension begins melting out of Crowley’s body, Aziraphale shifts, turning his head to press a kiss to the snake below his ear. 

“I’ll tell you where it came from,” he starts, murmuring against the demon’s cheek, “if you promise not to make fun of me.” 

He nods and the angel smiles, practically nuzzling before he speaks again. 

“It’s just a tattoo, completely human,” Aziraphale explains, smirking to himself at the next bit. “I got a bit drunk when the Berlin Wall fell… everyone was celebrating then, all of those people back on the same side, no arbitrary barriers between them and I just.. I got caught up in it all, I suppose.”

For a moment Aziraphale thinks Crowley is crying again, shaking, his face still pressed up against the angels neck. But then the sound bubbles out and over his harsh edges-- bright and clear-- the demon laughs. 

The angel smiles wide in spite of himself, watching his companion come apart at the seams with right giggles, rolling away to clutch at his sides. 

“You… you… I can’t believe…” he chokes out words between breaths, pulling Aziraphale onto his stomach to look at the tattoo again. 

“Why not just on your ass angel? A tramp-stamp of my fucking sigil! I can’t believe you!” 

Aziraphale flushes hard, batting at Crowley half-heartedly and trying to look indignant. 

“Maybe I should get something to go with it, huh? Little angel wings in the same spot? How does that sound?” 

“Crowley!” 

Before he can protest the goading further, Crowley crashes his lips into Aziraphale’s, giggling into the kiss and then deepening it, pushing his own love towards the angel and trying to believe that he really can do this now, that they’re really here. 

When he pulls back, Crowley rests his forehead against the angel’s, squeezing his eyes shut and cupping Aziraphale’s face. 

“I don’t want to ruin you, angel,” he whispers, a prayer to a god he no longer believes in. 

“Oh, love,” Aziraphale starts, biting back tears of his own. “If your love is my ruin, I’d burn the wings myself.” 

  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Come chat on tumblr at floweringscrubs !!


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